Silent Scream 4
A short time after the incident, my aunt got married and moved to San Francisco with her new husband. My grandmother joined them and when my aunt and uncle had a baby, having our doting Lola living with them was very helpful. That arrangement lasted until my grandmother’s death years later. My parents divorced when I was 11 and my dad started a new family tradition for my brother and me. My dad, my brother and I would spend two weeks of summer vacation visiting our relatives in the San Francisco area.
My brother and I have never spoken about that incident, even until today. Not a single word. My aunt and my grandmother, however, told me a story.
As I said in the previous episode, my aunt and my grandmother helped fill the gaps in my fragmented memory. But there was something else going on with them that took me years to figure out. From my teen years and well into adulthood, my aunt and my grandmother would look at me with the same face. Their eyes would be fixed on that area of skin between my eyebrow and my temple. My grandmother would caress that area with just a finger, gazing, searching. Her face tried to remain stoic, unemotional, but always had a touch of sadness in her eyes. My aunt would do the same thing, her face trying to remain as blank as possible.
“It’s there, still”, my grandmother would remark while barely touching the area. My aunt would nod in agreement. Both of their faces remained emotionless, still, as if moving the slightest muscle would be a concession to concealed emotion. This repeated pattern went on for years. Even after my grandmother passed away, my aunt carried on the scar search.
The ritual was this: touch the scar, hide all emotion. Sometimes my aunt would add, “Your mother,” shaking her head sideways as if to say, “We will not speak of the unspeakable.”
Recently, after my aunt went through the rite of scar touching, I took on a personal mission to gain insight, so I needed to revisit one of her bathrooms in particular. Her home being one of those iconic post earthquake San Francisco homes, has a bathroom with an original pull chain light directly above the medicine cabinet mirror. I put my face as close to the glass as possible, stretching the skin of history, concentrating as much direct light as possible. Staring, inspecting, examining, straining my neck forward, straining to hold my body still, I held my breath so that a frozen space and time could unveil a mystery. I don’t see it.
I don’t see a scar.
I don’t see a scar.
But there is a scar. The scar I can’t see with my eyes is seen by my heart.
Two little boys have grown up with a secret wound to their souls. Two women answered love’s call, morphing into avenging angels, rescuing those little boys from further mayhem. My aunt and my grandmother did not hesitate to step into their roles, undaunted by consequence, guided by love.
I don’t know if my aunt and my grandmother ever discussed the incident between them but I know that the unspoken, insanity induced trauma left scars on two courageous witnesses. Their tender inspection of my head, the subdued response, the erasure of emotion speaks of all of our fears.
What would have happened if they weren’t there?
The unimaginable never became reality.
The foundation of my therapy requires having a nurturer, a rescuer, someone that could save me, whether real or imagined. To this day, these two rescuers are the most important people for my continuing recovery.
Two real angels saved me. There would be no violent victory.
Love was the motivation.
Love was the guide.
Love prevailed.
This heartfelt reflection on the impact of supportive figures during times of trauma is incredibly moving. I, too, had angels of love who prevented my sisters and me from falling into permanent darkness. The calming presence of a nurturer, the reassurance of a rescuer—these are the pillars of our healing. Their love was stronger than any darkness that threatened to consume us. Thank you for sharing your story.
So interesting that they were intent on healing you by laying on hands. They undoubtably believed silence would heal. A totally different generation